


Our Time

by Lancre_witch



Category: Legacy of Kain
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, before everything went to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 06:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15702015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lancre_witch/pseuds/Lancre_witch
Summary: Janos could always find some reason to visit Vorador's forge.





	Our Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted in a longer, less polished verison on my tumblr in February. It has a few less scenes, but this version made for a more cohesive fic and a softer ending. One day I might rewrite it for a longer, sadder fic as originally planned, but for now I think these two deserve something fluffy.

Janos was used to the council chambers, those cold halls where the only things of consequence were words and thoughts. Words hiding thoughts. They were weighed and measured and balanced until they were empty.

Vorador never bothered much with words. Red hot iron heeds nothing but the hammer. What he made was solid and tangible, not a feather light promise to be tossed away in the weakest of spring storms. His forge was nothing Janos had known and everything he wanted. There was always some ornamental ironwork needed for the temples or a door in want of new hinges, always some reason to be there. At least, for a season or so, there was always some reason to be there.

Vorador plunged the axe head into a bucket of water and looked at him as the steam rose to the ceiling. “You lost your kettle,” he said flatly.

“I really can’t understand it. I thing one of my cats may have…” he tailed off. It was hard to continue when Vorador was looking at him with that lopsided half smile on his face.

“Kettles take time. In the meantime, would you take tea with me?”

*

Janos closed the door against the early autumn chill, hung up his cloak and set a tray down on the table. “I hope you have your woodpile stacked. The weather is definitely taking a turn,” he said as he unhooked the kettle and set about making the tea. Somehow, the one he had commissioned had still not been finished or even mentioned. Kettles take time. Long enough for him to learn that Vorador preferred cherry scones to plain and fig rolls to dates.

“I brought maids of honour,” he said during a lull in the hammering. “Although I fear some may have turned out as tarts.”

He could feel Vorador’s smirk from across the room. “That happens sometimes. I’ll be with you as soon as I get these horseshoes finished.”

*

“You’ve never brought wine before.”

“I’ve never had anything to celebrate before.”

Vorador thought that he had had something to celebrate since he realised Janos’ visits were not exactly at the request of the Council. He thought he knew what it meant when another avowed bachelor found excuses like that. Janos had disappointed. Or, at least, he had never broached the subject. If he was honest with himself, Vorador would admit that he hadn’t either. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that they were not quite toasting the same thing when Janos raised his glass and said, “To victory!”

The blacksmith cared little for the winged races’ eternal war. It had been the same in his grandfather’s time and the same advice still held true, “Keep your head down and don’t bother them, and the Gentry won’t bother with you.” Vorador had raised his head, seen the dark rings under Janos’ eyes, seen the worry lines starting to map themselves across his face. He saw the fading care in Janos’ eyes as he took another sip of the rich red wine. Janos’ joy was a worthy victory.


End file.
